Conviction
by KitsuneGamerGirl
Summary: Vincent and Veld are sent on job together, one that Vincent isn’t particularly fond of, especially when it gets messy. “Being a Turk isn’t a job, it’s your life, and sometimes in life you do things that you don’t like, but are necessary,” Veld tells him.


_Note: Just a little ficlet. Not something I planned, but the stuff I overanalyze always seems to be my least favorite. Probably why I write short stuff faster, I don't rehash it in my head like I do the dramatic stuff._

_Disclaimer: Final Fantasy and all related things belongs to Square Enix. I just write about it._

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Conviction

Veld was sitting in an old wooden church pew. The church itself was small and dusty and falling into disrepair. Stained glass windows and intricate carvings on the sides of the pews were remainders of the days when it was a beautiful sanctuary, filled with faithful looking for guidance. Now, there were only two older women in the front pew, quietly studying their prayer books. Veld was looking straight forward, like he was listening to a silent sermon.

"What are we doing here?"

Vincent's voice brought Veld back to where he was.

"Don't sneak up on me like that, Valentine."

"I thought you were a Turk. Aren't you supposed to know I'm there?" Vincent responded with a smirk. Veld scowled at the younger man.

"I swear, you're worse than a kid, with all your clever little comebacks."

Vincent ignored his complaint and sat down next to him. He sighed and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"I didn't know you were the religious type, Veld."

"I'm not. We're here for our next assignment."

Vincent turned to look at him.

"At a church?"

"Yes, Valentine, at a church," he repeated with a hint of exasperation. Vincent continued to look at him. Veld fidgeted a bit. The two women in the front pew gathered their belongings and left. The church was quiet for moment before Veld continued.

"One of the slum gangs is running a weapons black market. Even some of Shinra's soldiers are buying their things here."

"The prez doesn't like the competition?"

"Either way, it's something we have to do. The leader is the son of the priest of this church. He's the only person we have a lead on," Veld said, looking at a file.

"We take him in?"

"No. We have other ways of getting information. Our orders are shoot to kill."

Vincent turned his head towards the sound of a door opening. An older man dressed in black was coming out of a small door from the left side of the church. He carried a cello, one that had probably seen as many years as he had. He smiled at Vincent.

"I didn't realize I had company. As I'm sure you can tell, not very many people have faith in God anymore," he said, sadness lacing his voice.

"People don't have much faith in anything anymore," Vincent responded. The priest nodded slowly.

"An unfortunate truth. Without hope, we cannot survive. Nevertheless, it is nice to see a young person here. Make yourself at home," he said. Vincent stood up.

"Actually, we were hoping if you could tell us where your son is," he said. The old man studied them for a second.

"Ah. You must have been sent by Shinra. Even if you get my son, it will not change the slums. There is crime everywhere. You will never be able to shut everything down. Why waste the time, effort, and money? Just leave us as we are. We get by with our way of life, and you, yours."

Veld stood up next to Vincent.

"We get paid to do our job, not to discuss why or alternate options," he said shortly. "Just tell us where he is. What do you care? He's an arms dealer in the slums. He's not exactly the portrait of success."

"Though I may not agree with what he is doing, he is the only family I have left."

"There is more to family than blood," Veld said simply.

"Maybe, but still. Please leave. I will not tell you where he is," he said, then turned his back on him and started playing a slow, mournful song.

"We know he's here," Veld said. The man ignored him. Veld started walking toward the small inner door. He stopped in front of it and put his hand on the doorknob. Vincent noticed a slight hesitation and a wrong in the song, undetectable to anyone but the most observant person. Veld did notice it and tried to open the door, but it was locked. He took out his gun and fired one round into the lock. The music stopped abruptly.

"Please, don't," the man said as he stood up.

"If you interfere, I will shoot you," Veld informed him.

Vincent walked into the doorway and kicked the door a few times until it swung in. Standing halfway down the short hallway, turned towards the door leading out the back, was a rough looking man in his 20's. He paused only momentarily before tearing down the hall away from Vincent. At the same time, his father rushed at Veld. Veld reacted quickly, shooting the man's knee. Vincent shot the son twice in the back. Their shots were instantaneous, almost like it been orchestrated beforehand. They both fell, one dead, one still alive. Veld turned and walked out. Vincent looked at the old man for a moment, and then followed Veld without a word.

Veld started the black sedan as Vincent got in. He watched Vincent take a cigarette out and light it.

"You haven't said anything for a while."

"Yeah. How long does it take to get used to this job?" Vincent asked.

"You were involved in that kind of thing in the slums."

"I know, but it was different. That's just how life was. You would think one you get to the top plate, you think it's all going to be sunshine and flowers, but it's not. It's worse in a way, because you think you'll have a better life, but it's really the same thing, just in a suit. At least in the slums, nobody hides it. Everyone knows that's how it is. Still, I took the job, so," Vincent trailed off.

"Being a Turk isn't a job, it's your life, and sometimes in life you do things that you don't like, but are necessary," Veld told him sternly. "We do what need to survive."


End file.
